Light from the tavern spilled out into the muddy road. An old villager, drunk and half asleep, leaned against the wall beside the door. The old man didn't want to make the ten minute walk down the hill to his home where an angry wife awaited him. The sounds of cheer from inside the tavern kept his spirits up and helped him ward off the encroaching specter of sleep.
He hiccupped and brought out the other bottle of wine he had ducked out with. The innkeeper was distracted by the revelry and it meant nicking a few bottles quite simple. The old man would make it up to him tomorrow, if he managed to wake up before dark. The inn had been packed to the brim earlier, but most of the villagers had already broken off for home. The remaining patrons were the younger lot from the village. The men had spent the past month working day and night to bring in the harvest and now that it was shipped off they were eager to blow off steam and squander their pay. The young women were glad for the attention and their fathers were a bit lax on harvest day. The result was a grand party and a good night's return for the innkeeper.
A sound shook the old man from his stupor. Hoof beats. The city guard did not patrol this road at night. The man stared into the darkness as the rider approached. A black horse pounded through the mud until it reared up just in front of the inn. The rider dismounted and spent a few moments taking off gloves and his cloak to store in his saddlebags. The old man tried not to stare, but his curiosity was enhanced by his drunkenness. The stranger stepped into the light of the tavern as he tied up his horse.
The old man had seen many people in his small life in a village by the city, but he had never seen someone like the rider. Pale skin and white hair meant noble blood, but this man had many scars on his face. Perhaps he served in the army, the old man thought. The rider wore a black tunic with red stitching that the old man did not recognize, but the pendant hanging from his neck was another matter.
When the old man was just a boy, before the Witch Trials, that pendant was a common sight. An Eye of Kethis was a catalyst for magic. The damned things had been wiped out during the Witch Trials, smashed on an anvil as the witches burned. The old man knew his childhood myths well, and he knew that forging a new Eye of Kethis took a great toll on its creator while also giving him or her great power. The old man was afraid as the rider walked over to the inn door.
The drunk hoped that he wouldn't be noticed, but the rider looked down at him with pity. "Go home old one," the rider said.
"Yes, mi'lord," the old man replied softly. He crawled to his feet and started backing away from the rider. Through the window of the tavern he could see the last of the revelers toasting once more. He thought he should warn them, or perhaps raise the guard. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he felt a tightness in his chest and a pain in his left arm. The old man collapsed beside the road as the stranger entered the inn.
The rider surveyed the room.
The tavern was small, but warm and brightly lit. The innkeeper was passed out drunk behind the bar. Ten others remained, all mostly intoxicated. The innkeeper's wife was still managing the place. Three of her friends, all old maids, remained to keep her company while the young folk continued to sing and laugh and dance. Three young couples were sitting at two conjoined tables in the center of the room.
The three men were all roughly the same in appearance and demeanor. Each was of average height, and their builds matched that of every other field working villager in the whole realm, as well as having the exact same cropped haircut and shaved face. Somewhat flabby to look at, but pure muscle underneath. Their skin, even at the age of 20, was sun-worn and hardened. They each wore a loose fitted shirt and fairly dirty trousers.
The women on the other hand were fairly unique, a redhead, a brunette, and a raven haired. They were wearing their day dresses, which usually fastened at the neck, but each of the girls had loosened this top lace and allowed their cleavage to come into view. The redhead was the most captivating. Her face was youthful and bright with a smile, while her perky breasts heaved up and down with each breath. The brunette was shorter and less endowed, but seemed to make up for it in cheer. The raven haired girl was entirely demure and reserved. Her dress was off her shoulders, but she had not been brazen enough to pull it down to her cleavage.
The rider nodded to himself. "These will do," he thought as he turned the latch on the inn's door. The innkeeper's wife saw him and started to rise to meet him, but he held up his hand and the woman sat back down. He walked over to the celebrating couples.
"Hello, friend!" said one of the young men. "Come to join in our little party?"
The rider smiled, "No. I have come here with the offer of work. I am called Argyle of Riven."
"What kind of work does Argyle of Riven offer in the dead of night in our village?" replied the young man, waving his hand in a patronizing bow.
Argyle ignored the fool, instead focusing on the three young women. "I am lord of a manor in the hills north of here. I am searching for a new milkmaid."
"Beg your pardon, master," said the brunette. "We're low folk. We ain't got no fancy servant training. All we know is field work and village chores."
"You would be trained," Argyle said, taking a seat at the table. The men around him bristled at his intrusion. "The manor is vast and you would be well taken care of. The wage is ten silver a month."
One of the young men heard the sum and almost choked on his own drink. The three women's eyes went wide with shock. "Ten silver a month?" asked the redhead, dumbfounded. "That's mor'n they'll get for the whole harvest."
